


Blowtorch

by sinners_sandwich



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M, One Shot, more character ramblings in fact..
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 16:17:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4673237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinners_sandwich/pseuds/sinners_sandwich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A slow evening. (Roman/Dean)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blowtorch

Eight in the evening, and it's dark out. The days are getting shorter, Roman notes, then disrupts his own drifting thoughts with the hollow thunk of his boot heel swinging against the empty dumpster he's sitting on.

He's buzzed... just a little. He's got Dean to thank for both parts of that; they hadn't had the best match earlier on in the evening, and Roman was only willing to drink a few drinks at Dean's persistent request, never liking how he gets with a bad mood and alcohol combined.

Not that it would have mattered if he'd had any restraint tonight or not, as they were _politely asked_ to leave the divey joint over Dean yelling at the game on TV and doing the same to anyone who asked him to shut up.

Roman's smiling absently at the memory of that, two hours before, only pulled from his thoughts (and the slow, rhythmic thunk of his swinging boot against the dumpster) by Dean approaching him.

"Your turn," Dean says, cheerfully, waiting for Roman to hop down from the top of the dumpster before handing him his personal toy for the evening. A fucking blowtorch.

Roman's steps are steady as he goes over to the piles of, well, actual _garbage_ that are haphazardly thrown around the empty parking lot, a good distance away from the equally empty street. He quickly spots (or smells) the smoldering heap that Dean's been doing a number on, pieces of a broken table, it looks like, and singed take-out boxes, maybe? Melted soda bottles? Whatever it is, it's fucking rank.

"I'unno if I wanna make this place smell any worse," Roman voices his hesitations through an amused half-smile, though his reluctance is very real. Dean has his reasons for wanting to light shit on fire, yeah--but these reasons aren't exactly shared by him.

Dean, for all his personality, is not as pushy as one might expect. He gives a good-natured shrug, a smug smile that suggests he's happy with whatever outcome, as long as Roman somehow makes use of the handy tools Dean managed to pick up between the bar and here. "Get creative, Reigns. We all know you're more than just a pretty face."

"Yeah," Roman huffs, glancing back at him before looking back to the piles scattered about. "'We' also know not to expect too much, right?"

"Right." It's as good as a dismissal on Dean's part. "C'mon, light this shit up already."

 

* * *

 

Despite the dramatic sigh Dean gave him when Roman decided to take the blowtorch to the brick wall rather than the piles Dean had so helpfully laid out for them, he hadn't complained, either not caring what Roman was doing or actually being interested in seeing the outcome.

It's not often that Roman just lets his mind take him wherever. He's got a sense Dean wants to encourage him to act on instinct sometimes, but the truth is, Roman doesn't have much in the instincts department. His anger's very real, and any fights he gets into, he means it. But for all that, every action he takes is pretty deliberate.

Right now, a little buzzed and having no one's eyes on him but Dean's, he singes a slow pattern into the brick wall ahead of him, spending a few minutes letting the lines go wherever. It looks vaguely inspired by his tat, maybe, but not exactly, and nowhere near as neat or professional. He's pleased with it, anyway.

"Huh, who knew you were an artist," Dean comments as he steps over, and if he's disappointed Roman didn't give him a more violent show than he did, he doesn't show it. Maybe it's just the slight blur in Roman's vision as he glances toward him, but Dean actually looks impressed. "This is fuckin' cool."

"Eh," Roman grins. "Don't smell half as bad as yours did anyway."

Dean straightens up from where he was peering at the burned brick, giving him one of those squinty smiles. "Hey, I'm serious! Give yourself some credit, man. This is some real, bonafide, _artistry_ , right here." He slaps a bandaged palm against the wall art, twice, three times, approving.

"Well, in some other life I might'a been drawing comics about my enemies gettin' their ass kicked, instead of makin' it happen for real." Roman firmly believes the life he's chosen is the right one, just as he's never had doubts about the company he keeps.

"Has anyone ever told you, you have--" Dean smiles as he lifts his chin proudly, "--a _beautiful_ imagination, Roman Reigns." And with that, he's stolen back the blowtorch.

 

* * *

 

Roman's been sober enough to keep his focus on watching Dean waste those piles of things, mostly broken furniture and bent cardboard now. It's a weird way to waste time or wind down, sure--anyone else would've checked out of one bar and found another to drink more or watch the rest of the game in. But, neither of them really likes a hangover half a day before you're clocking in for a fight.

No words pass between them, but Roman's eyes stay fixed to Dean, mostly. And though Dean barely looks as if he's acknowledging anything other than what's burning down at his whim, Roman knows he knows he's watching him. They like watching each other fight in the ring, but these moments far from any other audience are a performance of a different kind. Dean _lets_ him see him like this.

There's a way that the flames reflect in Dean's widened eyes that's unsettling. But Roman's sight never leaves him. He's always had a thousand questions about Dean Ambrose and every time he feels the distance between them it's one that fills up with those things he has no answers to, things Dean might try to answer for him but Roman knows better than to ask about.

That look when Dean's destroying something, burning down broken pieces of nothing like it's his own form of art, it's the same look that makes people call him _crazy_. All those people, Roman thinks, maybe they oughta just keep their mouths shut. Maybe all those people that call him a lunatic are just lucky not to know what it feels like to be truly, god-damn helpless.

Sometimes you just wanna break shit just to know you had the choice to.

When Dean pauses his work and lets the orange light fill the space, casting harsh, sharp, crisp black shadows around them, he tosses the blowtorch to the side and walks over to ask him a question that doesn't really matter. Cause he knows how Roman's looking at him and he makes a comment 'bout how Roman looks damn good in the firelight, and Roman just gives him a twisted, tiny smile. He presses a kiss against the corner of Dean's mouth, just to get a taste of his thoughts.

 

* * *

 

As much as Roman likes to fight, what he really likes is feeling useful. And when someone you know so well is looking at you in a certain way, you know what you can do for him.

Stumbling into the room as if he's three times drunker than Roman knows he is, Dean clutches his middle and then slumps against the wall with his leather jacket riding up on one shoulder, sending a smile that's nothing less than suggestive his way.

"I am _really_ turned on right now," Dean drawls out with a flash of teeth, "and it ain't the drink talkin', baby."

Roman gives a low chuckle that he really can't help, his brows lowered down over his eyes as if he's trying to disapprove of that line. But his hands find Dean before words find his lips, and his mind clears when another long kiss takes up both their space.

Dean seems relaxed, he thinks, almost odd for him when he's usually driving things forward really fast, sometimes way _too_ fucking fast. He doesn't throw off his clothes, lets Roman do it at his own pace, though Roman can feel he's antsy over the slow tug of his jacket off his arms and onto the floor. Dean gives what's almost a squirm when Roman's hands pull him by his waist, against him, lips traveling Dean's neck. And he can hear the frustrated exhale that makes him smile against skin.

"Want me to pick it up a lil bit?" he questions, his voice low, deep; evidence of his own want, if the swell of him against Dean's hip isn't proof enough. There's that smile in his voice.

Dean catches his breath. "Nah, this is good."

"Really." Roman finds his earlobe with his teeth and tugs it.

"Gah, fuck. Don't test me, Reigns."

Roman considers that a victory and walks them (slowly) to the bed.

 

* * *

 

Dean somehow seems to want to keep things going slow, despite directing things a bit more from there--letting Roman stretch out on his back on the bed, as he likes him, and settling down on his lap, Roman's cock driven all the way into him. He hisses out what has to be relief; he took way more time than Roman's ever seen him bother with, prepping himself for this.

"Easy," Roman speaks, his immense enjoyment interrupted by a moment of actual concern for how fast Dean dropped down on his lap.

Dean manages a scowl and a grin at once, blinking his eyes rapidly, "You have no damn idea how easy this was."

Roman smiles, a perfect angel, his thumbs rubbing the curve of Dean's hipbones. "Mmm-hm." He thrusts up, quick, hard, and unexpected, and relishes the choked out approval it draws from the other.

Despite the input of Roman's body, Dean is controlling the pace, and he keeps it steady, letting Roman feel every stroke. Roman's not one to hide his reactions and damn if that doesn't feel _so_ damn good, the squeeze of his body forcing his head to drop back at times, his lips parting just enough to let a gasp out, stilted groans pacing out with his movements.

He gets lost in the feeling for a while, aware of little else besides each stroke, the slap of skin, and Dean's fingers staking their claim on every inch of his chest. And he's the one who has to pick up the speed, and only when he _needs_ more.

He mutters a helpless curse and it's Dean's small laugh that draws his attention back, that focuses his eyes to the one upright on his lap, a silent question there.

He can read words in Dean's face; _You like this?_ Roman can't deny he does, and maybe it's only just then that he recognizes that he's made the same mistake he often made in the past, in thinking Dean doesn't watch him, sometimes, in the same way Roman watches him. This, how Dean's doing this, is for Roman. Roman, who's notorious for getting off best when things are slow, measured, and build tension in every muscle in his body.

Roman's hand finds Dean's face, and he runs a thumb across his smirking lips, before slipping that thumb in his mouth. Dean welcomes the press and sucks on it, sending sparks through him, clearly enjoying the effect that one little touch can have on Roman even while he's riding him without pause.

When Roman draws his hand away to guide the movement of hips along with his other, he sighs out against the kiss that's suddenly pressed to his lips, and keeps rocking his hips up, stealing as much of Dean's breath as he'll allow. He winces when a harsh tug of his hair pulls him back from the kiss while Dean stays close, eyes locked to his, like Roman might be even half as fascinating as the flames. That alone rivets him to the spot and drives Roman right to the edge.

"You are so--fuck, so goddamn gorgeous." Dean's words are hot against his cheek, and Roman bucks beneath him, head twisting back as he comes.

He can feel Dean going over, too, and pulls him down against him when he settles and shifts off his length, dragging his nails gently over Dean's spine and relishing the little shiver of aftershock it earns him.

Lips press kiss after lazy kiss against Dean's temple, until the physical affection seems to agitate the man a bit, and Dean puts some distance between their heads without really separating their bodies at all. He's got the laziest smile on his face and it brings one to Roman's too.

"Shower?" Dean mumbles.

"Eh."

"Thank god."

Roman pulls him in and tries to get away with one more kiss to his head. And Dean lets him get away with it. Just the one.

**Author's Note:**

> me, while writing this: did this really need a sex scene  
> also me: yes,
> 
> feedback appreciated as always❤


End file.
